


i know what i’m like (can you help me?)

by Saccharin (VITRI0L)



Series: childish fluff n stuff like that :D [1]
Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Afterlife, Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Mentioned Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), No Beta, Resurrection, Temporary Character Death, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, agere, caregiver!TommyInnit, little!Wilbur Soot, they’re my favourite 🥺
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 06:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30084813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VITRI0L/pseuds/Saccharin
Summary: Wilbur gets resurrected, the last thing that he wanted. Now, he has to learn how to deal with the stress of his new old life. Luckily, there’s someone who knows a bit what he’s like.•••Everything smelled like dirt, sharp and earthy. Wilbur groaned as he brought his arms under his chest, bracing them shakily against the ground below. Pins buried themselves below his skin as he put more weight on his appendages, trying to push himself up.I amalive.•••Spoilers!
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: childish fluff n stuff like that :D [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2213628
Comments: 1
Kudos: 75





	1. an all too familiar beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur seeks out a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are DDLG or part of “problematic myct”, this fic isn’t the place for you. Don’t make this work sexual cuz that’s gross.
> 
> If any of the content creators say that they are uncomfortable with works such as these, I will remove this!

Ghost— _Wilbur_ was alive.

His lungs heaved desperately, oxygen rattling through his ribs as his weary body forced him to breath. 

The grass was cold under him, the dew catching little threads of his sweater and pants, finding their way to his pallid skin beneath. 

Everything smelled like dirt, sharp and earthy. Wilbur groaned as he brought his arms under his chest, bracing them shakily against the ground below. Pins buried themselves below his skin as he put more weight on his appendages, trying to push himself up.

 _I am_ alive.

Wilbur curled his legs up, digging his knees into the cold Earth under him. A dull feeling gripped every single bone on his once dead body. It was as though his form, once full of life and fire, now forced itself to relearn the movements that use to come so naturally.

Wilbur gritted his teeth, extending his arms and pushing up.

His joints locked and his muscles screamed in protest. His nerves were lit aflame, but it wasn’t the fire the brunet had been used to. 

It wasn’t the one the brought a desire for change, a passion for life, but the one the sought destruction and consumed everything in its path.

He collapsed onto his side, panting with exertion as the pain shot through his side.

_I am alive and I’ve been revived._

His lungs and stomach twisted suddenly.

Wilbur curled in on himself instinctually, coughing emptily until he gagged.

“I’m back,” he whispered, voice catching against his worn and tattered throat.

The metal taste of iron leaked onto his tongue.

“And life is just as fucking bad as I remember.”

•••

Wilbur was starting to wonder if he was cursed. 

He had finally gotten his body to move, stumbling like a newborn fawn out of the woods he’d spawned in. Turns out he’d come back just outside L’Manberg ( _how fitting_ , he thought disgustedly), hurrying past the nation that existed no longer.

Maybe it never existed at all.

He was cursed. 

Cursed to walk this godforsaken Earth once again, cursed to face all those who’d forgotten him and who he’d forgotten. Cursed to live after his time had run out, cursed to try to fix this place once again.

He was also cursed with the gift of memories.

So, as Wilbur reached the Prime Path, tattered soles of his black boots hitting the familiar oak wood, the memories haunted him. Now they were the ghosts and he was their victim, cursed to know things that threatened to destroy him.

His memories as Wilbur.

His memories as Ghostbur.

His memories in the Afterlife.

There they were, waiting for him. Waiting for him to come a little closer, giving into his curiosity so they could tear him to shreds. 

One face haunted him the most.

Wilbur’s throat was dry, his body shook against the cool spring night, but his feet kept moving. Forward he went, to find the only constant in the expanse of his existence.

Tommy’s house came into view as he reached the top of the stairs. It was just as the brunet remembered it, except the blond teen had changed the smooth stone back to the dirt it had been when they’d first arrive on the SMP.

Those memories were wrapped in barbed wire.

And Wilbur ran straight into it.

His heart squeezed uncomfortably, burning like it had went that netherite sword had pierced it all those years ago.

His scar tingled. Wilbur ignored that too.

_It’s been years... right?_

There were no clocks in the Afterlife. After a lot of screaming matches and cold shoulders, Schlatt and Wilbur had come up with a system to count the hours.

It had given them something to do besides solitaire. (Schlatt was always too drunk to read the cards correctly anyways.)

The brunet ignored the sense of foreboding that tried to grab at his throat and cut off his oxygen. He forced himself to keep walking, the movement disjointed and awkward.

Like he was the captain of an animated corpse.

The thought made him want to throw up. But nothing but bile rose to the back of his throat, burning like the way redstone dust did if it was inhaled.

_I shouldn’t be here._

It was a mantra that rung loudly through the valleys of his mind, matching the staccato’d and stuttering beat of his footsteps. It was true, Wilbur should be here, he shouldn’t be trying to see Tommy. 

_Gray eyes, frozen over with thin layers of familiar ice, flashed fearfully amongst the dark fog that surrounded them. Tommy’s too thin frame shook as his hands gripped the play cards enough that the cards bent under the stress. Wilbur was hurt by the way the other reacted, these were plans he’d spent his years in the Afterlife coming up with._

_“How much longer do I have?” Tommy mumbled, voice so soft the brunet almost didn’t hear it._

_Wilbur forced a smile._

_“I’m glad you’re here, Tommy.”_

The boy would no longer help him. Wilbur had lost that trust long ago.

Yet, here he stood, hand wavering above the door handle. Red and white flowers swayed in the lawn beside him, bending lazily to the gentle night’s breeze.

A lump in his throat made it hard to swallow.

 _Just... maybe he’ll consider it,_ Wilbur tried, the false confidence tasting like poison, _Maybe it can be like the old day._

He rested his palm against the wooden door handle, locking his fingers around it one by one. Nervousness made his beating heart nearly leap from his chest and there were tears in his eyes for some reason.

The door handle turned easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it me!
> 
> i haven’t actually seen the stream where ghostbur comes back so if i get something wrong in the next chapter, my apologies! lore streams just do be pretty stressful.
> 
> i need some good ol’ fluff, man
> 
> hope you’re doing well & stay safe! <33


	2. we meet again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur finds Tommy once again, but things don’t go exactly as planned.

Tommy stood in the middle of his room, talking loudly into his communicator. Wilbur frowned, shutting the door gently behind him. Though he had no idea who the blond was talking to, the teen was loudly ranting about the ideas of “true happiness.”

What a load of bullshit.

The brunet couldn’t stop the words that escaped him next.

“Shut up, Tommy.”

They were harsh and mean, purposefully said to be hurtful. Wilbur felt a lang in his already sore heart, but his ignored it. 

Because _this_ was who he was. 

The Wilbur from the revolution had died when L’Manberg had fallen for the first time. Ghostbur was never truly him, merely an innocent shell of what the man could have been.

That only left him.

Tommy whirled around, eyes wide and all colour rapidly draining from his face. The whites of his eyes became visible when they landed on the man before him. The fear in the teen’s face was tangible and he screeched loudly at the sight of Wilbur.

Wilbur did his best not to scowl at the high pitched noise. For all Tommy knew, he was Ghostbur right now and that’s how he would have to act. 

Tommy would try to stop him. 

And Dream wouldn’t like that.

_“I know what I’m like, Tommy.”_

_There was a deep breath. A silence before the..._

_“Yeah, well I know what I’m like too!” the blond screamed back, voice echoing against the nothingness around them, “And I want to get the FUCK OUTTA HERE!”_

_...storm._

“Ghostbur, fuck man— you scared the shit outta me!” Tommy snapped, looking mildly annoyed at the supposed ghost. 

He turned back to his comm.

“Yeah, ‘m alright. No, don’t worry ‘bout it. See ya, Tubbo.”

He tucked the device into the pocket of—

Wilbur felt his eyes widen as he noticed the old coat that Tommy wore. It was worn, ripped at the ends with patches running up the sleeves. It still smelled like gunpowder and soot, the deep brown much darker than when the brunet had first gotten it.

“Hiya, Tommy,” he replied, forcing a lighter falsetto into his tone, mimicking the grating way in which his ghostly counterpart spoke, “Sorry about that!”

Something was missing.

_Oh._

“I would hand you some blue, but unfortunately I don’t have any on me,” he added quickly.

Tommy frowned, but said nothing about the excuse. Wilbur smiled lightly, pressing the panic bubbling in his mind back down. 

“That’s alright, mate,” the teen responded, running a hand through his much longer hair, “What’cha doing here? Haven’t seen you in forever.”

The brunet hummed, quickly racking his fatigued mind for a good excuse. Everything was throwing him for a loop, he wasn’t ready to be alive again. 

The realization sunk into his weary bones.

“Just went away for a while,” he replied, fiddling with the hem of his amber sweater, “Needed some time away.”

The suspicion in Tommy’s cold eyes soften at the answer, giving his gaze a distant look. A sad smile crept onto his lips.

“Yeah, I get that.”

The way in which the teen said it mad him sound so much older than he was. Wilbur bit the inside of his lip. This Tommy wasn’t the kid who had joined his side during the revolution, nor was it the one who stuck by him in Pogtopia.

This was the kid who had survived Death itself.

Wilbur kept his facade up, he had to, but there were the beginnings of cracks in its veneer.

“But, I’m back now! How are you, Toms, I haven’t seen you in forever either!”

Tommy hummed softly.

“Not great, if I’m honest.”

The brunet couldn’t keep the smile from falling off his face. He wondered vaguely how he was meant to keep lying to the kid.

_Tommy trusts me._

_You’re here to fix things_ , a vicious voice reminded him, _Don’t forget that._

Wilbur grimaced, feeling a certain fog roll in under the storm of his thoughts. He was here to complete his plans, nothing more nothing less. Then, everything could finally end.

He fought the war in his mind to look to the teen watching him.

“Why?” he asked simply, pretending he hadn’t been the one to greet Tommy in the Afterlife.

Tommy shook his head, gaze turning steely and furious.

Wilbur saw the sorrow it hid.

“Don’t you dare ask me to explain. I ca— I **won’t** do it,” the teen warned, anger woven into his words.

The brunet nodded, partially for Tommy’s sake and partially so he could try and make the fog that promised safety evaporate. 

“How much do you know about, Wilbur, Ghostbur,” Tommy suddenly asked, shoving his hands into that trench coat’s pockets.

“Uh... well, not much but,” he paused, struggling to think, “I kinda think he was ok.”

_Well, fuck._

“Why? He blew up L’Manberg,” the teen explained, voice heavy with hate, “He was a fucking prick, man.”

The fog only grew heavy, thin tendrils wrapping around all his thoughts, all his worries and tugging them away. It was so warm.

Wilbur whined softly, unaware of the sound as he heard the words register.

“Maybe... but, what if he was just doing what was right?”

 _‘m just tryin’ to do what’s right, can’t you see?_ he thought desperately.

All the anger washed from Tommy’s expression, replaced with something much softer.

“Wilbur?”

All the events from that day were suddenly washed from Wilbur’s mind. The pain of resurrection, the stress of knowing he had a mission to complete, the feeling that those plans were near impossible, everything. It was swallowed by the pure white fog that tried to hold him close.

Wilbur reached out. 

It embraced him lovingly.

“Toms,” he called back, the higher pitch in his voice no longer forced, “Missed you...”

He reached out.

•••

Tommy stared up at the brunet, gaze flicking to the outstretched hand. 

_How did I not catch that_ , he scolded himself furiously, _Ghosts aren’t fucking solid!_

But, to his defense, Wilbur looked ghostly. Pallid skin stretched too wide over protruding bones. That sweater looked too vibrant, like it was more alive than his brother.

_Shit, he’s fucking alive!_

“How the fuck are you here?” Tommy whispered, fighting the urge to flinch away from the taller as panic ran through him. 

He would show Wilbur that he wasn’t scared of him. That he wasn’t scared of whatever plan him and Dream had put together. No, he was going to kill Dream and that would be the end of it.

So, he wasn’t afraid.

But, Wilbur made a small noise and pulled his hand back towards his body like it was wounded. His deep brown eyes looked hurt as he backed away from Tommy slightly. His back collided with the dirt wall, and the older leaned against it awkwardly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, warm accent overpowering his words much more than it usually did.

The man cast his eyes to the ground and bit one of his thumbs. The action made Tommy frown, worry growing as much as he tried to stomp it out.

The brunet was acting like a child.

 _Oh shit_ , Tommy thought immediately.

“Hey, buddy, can you tell me how old you are?”

Wilbur’s gaze held his, surprise evident. He fought as smile as he held up three fingers of his free hand.

Age regression wasn’t something Tommy had ever encountered before, but it wasn’t totally foreign. He and Tubbo had come across it a few times in their searches for coping mechanisms. Sure, he didn’t know that Wilbur regressed, but it was pretty easy to understand why he did.

“You’re so small,” Tommy teased with a grin, “Can I call you little W?”

Wilbur giggled but shook his head vehemently. His curly hair fell in the way of his face, bouncing messily.

“No! Bubba, please?”

It was a nickname that Tommy recognized. His heart clenched painful as he smiled at his now mentally younger brother.

Wilbur used to call him bubba when they were younger. As much as Tommy protested, he liked the way the affectionate name made warmth bloom in his chest.

“Of course, bubba,” he replied, reaching a hand to brush a strand of Wilbur’s hair from in front of his eyes.

The brunet’s gaze tried to follow his hand and Tommy laughed softly. One of Wilbur’s hands reached up, as if to grab his, but it stopped hesitantly.

He looked to Tommy for approval.

“Go ahead,” he replied.

Wilbur’s hand encircled his wrist, pulling it timidly from his hair down to chest level. Tommy felt awkward as he let the little play with his hand, but the way Wilbur smiled made him keep his mouth shut.

 _I can’t remember a time when he smiled like that_ , he thought sadly.

“Loneson?” Wilbur suddenly asked, let Tommy take his hand back.

“I don’t know where he is,” the blond replied, frowning, “I’m sorry.”

The shark plushie was Wilbur’s favourite toy, but Tommy wasn’t privy to its location. He wasn’t even sure if Wilbur had brought the toy with them when they had left the Antarctic Empire.

In fact, Tommy had nothing child friendly for the little to have. He had burnt all the presents that Phil had sent his for Christmas when he was a kid and he kept nothing sentiment besides his discs. 

Wilbur’s eyes welled with tears and he pouted, bottom lip wobbly slightly. The blond sighed, but he wasn’t mad. He just hated when other people cried, he didn’t know how to comfort someone how was crying, much less a child who was crying.

An idea popped into his mind.

“C’mon, let me show you something,” he said, reaching out to take Wilbur’s hand.

The younger took it carefully, as if he was afraid he would break Tommy if he held too hard. 

Tommy led him outside, cutting through his lawn. He ignored the flowers that had closed under the night sky, quickly making his way to the bench.

He wasn’t particularly fond of having other people sit on the bench. It was his and Tubbo’s, after all, they’re special spot.

“Why here?” Wilbur asked as they walked under the tree, “For you and Bo. No’ me.”

Tommy smiled.

“Because. Look up, bubba.”

He tugged Wilbur gently, sitting him in the spot right beside him. Those brown eyes looked questioning, but Tommy just pointed up.

The brunet followed his gaze and gasped.

“Do you like the stars?” Tommy asked as they stared into the night sky.

The stars twinkled back at them, looking as though they were dancing amongst the inky blackness of space. They were beautiful, able to be seen even though they sat up so high, alone. Their silver light speckled the sky like paint spatter upon a canvas.

“So pretty,” Wilbur replied breathlessly, eyes wide at the sight.

“Yeah, they really are.”

Wilbur laid his head against Tommy’s shoulder suddenly, the contact making the teen jump. Wilbur pulled away instantly, eyes full of guilt as he looked back to the teen.

“Sorry, didn’ mean to,” he muttered quickly, looking down at the grass.

Tommy rolled his eyes.

He leaned forward and pulled the coat off, the chill of the night not nearly as bad as he was expecting. He never liked the trench coat, it reminded him of times he’d much rather forget.

But, it had also reminded him of Wilbur.

Tommy laid the coat over the brunet, tucking it under his chin. Wilbur gripped the coat curiously, looking between it and the blond.

“You can lean on me, buddy. You just startled me, that’s all,” he reassured.

Wilbur smiled timidly.

Tommy really didn’t like to see the brunet in that coat again.

But the smile on his brother’s face as he laid on his shoulder, gazing up at the stars was enough to quel the darkness in his mind. 

Tommy had a million questions and even more millions of fears. The fact that Wilbur was back, and had pretended to be Ghostbur was enough to set the blond on edge. But, when he heard Wilbur’s breathing suddenly become slow and steady, Tommy couldn’t help but push them aside.

Those would be for tomorrow, when Wilbur was big and feeling better.

For now, Tommy was content to let sleep creep into his mind.

And the stars dance gently above them, guarding the two until they gave way to the Sun and the bright morning light.

It was peaceful then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love them 🥺


End file.
